Джеймс Хилтон - Time And Time Again

‘Charlie, I’m sorry. Been waiting long?’

‘No, I only just got here. Did you sleep well?’

‘Wonderfully. The clocks didn’t bother me at all… Oh, what a lovely time I had last night.’

‘You did? I’m glad. I had an idea you’d like Weigall and Peters.’

‘Oh yes, they’re nice.’

‘Peters especially. Did he talk to you much on the way?’

‘All the time. He does talk all the time, doesn’t he? But of course it was only a few minutes. It’s really a small town to walk across.’

‘Compared with Linstead—and when you’re in amusing company.’

‘Oh, you can’t compare it with Linstead. And I’d much rather have been with you—only, as you said, it would have meant leaving earlier.’

‘I think it was Peters, actually, who made the arrangement.’

‘Was it?’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He seized her arm clumsily. ‘Lily, you must forgive me—I’m being foolish. One good night’s sleep and I’ll see everything straighten… Don’t take me seriously now. Let’s have breakfast.’

During the meal he felt happier, relaxing in her company and in her obvious pleasure to be with him. But she was troubled about his earlier mood. ‘Charlie, what’s wrong? Why can’t you sleep?’

‘Overwork, I suppose, these last few weeks. Nothing to worry about.’

‘And taking all those days off to see me. You shouldn’t have done that.’

‘On the contrary, they kept me going.’ He laughed uncertainly. ‘I probably can’t live without you, Lily.’

‘Anybody ever say you had to?’ she laughed back. It was one of the few times she had touched, even as lightly as that, on the notion of a future.

‘They’d better not.’

She caught the grimmer note in his voice. ‘Don’t be cross about something that hasn’t happened.’

‘I’m not cross about anything, really. Not when I’m with you.’

‘Maybe you’ll sleep better tonight.’

‘After you’ve gone? I wonder.’

‘If those chimes keep people awake at nights I don’t know why they have them.’

‘Probably because they’ve had them for years and years and years. In Cambridge that’s a good reason.’

‘Never mind, you’ll be on your holidays soon. It’s country where you go home to, isn’t it? That’s one thing about the country—nice and quiet.’

‘Not always nice and sometimes TOO quiet. What will I do there now I haven’t got an examination to work for?’

‘Aren’t there some more examinations sometime?’

‘That’s a cheerful idea.’

‘Well, I thought if you WANTED something to do… But if I were you I’d just take a rest. Bill told me you’d been working too hard.’

‘Bill Peters? He wouldn’t know—he’s in another college. Besides, nothing’s hard work to him. I mean, he takes everything in his stride— examinations, sports, debates, even acting at the Footlights. Just like my brother Lindsay who died. One of those all-round fellows. Sure to have a career. A First for certain and probably a Blue and President of the Union —the whole bag of tricks. Nothing can stop him… and I like him enormously. I’m lucky to have him for a friend. He’s very popular.’

‘Why are you talking so much about him?’

‘Aren’t you interested? You seemed so last night—and he liked you too, that was obvious.’

She shook her head, but in dismay more than denial. ‘Oh, Charlie, it doesn’t seem to work well, does it, either when you meet my friends or I meet yours?’

‘PLEASE…’ He struggled with some inward fret that centred round the pit of his stomach. ‘Please forgive me again. The same old foolishness. The truth is, I wish I could have more time alone with you. Other people somehow seem to get in the way.’

‘All right then, let’s be alone.’

‘For the rest of the day? That isn’t much.’

‘It’s all we have. I wish it were more too.’

Then he heard his longings framing themselves into words that desperately came close and yet fought shy of what they really meant. ‘Lily, you’re supposed to go back by the 9.12—what if you didn’t? Suppose I borrow a car—I think I could—and we’ll go off somewhere on our own —now—this morning… and have all the time we can together —at some quiet place in the country… And tomorrow I’ll drive you right to the door of the office—not too late for Mr. Graybar, I promise… Could you? WOULD you?’

She answered immediately and simply: ‘Yes, if you want. But I must send dad a wire.’

‘Tell him you’re staying here another night.’

‘I won’t say “here”, I’ll just say “staying”. Then it won’t be a lie. I’d hate to tell my dad a lie.’

It took him till mid-afternoon to fix all the details of the sudden change of plan. He had to hire a car (not as easy on a Sunday as he had thought), and secure an overnight exeat from the college authorities (easy now that examinations were finished), and think of something plausible to tell Debden. The truth seemed most plausible of all—that he was just driving his guest back to London and would return the next day.

Meanwhile she sent the wire to her father.

They drove out of Cambridge southward over the Gog Magog hills towards those rolling Essex uplands that are never high but give every half-mile a changing contour. Presently they stopped at a small country town. It had a church with a crocketed spire that Charles would have sketched if he had been less tired, but they were satisfied to look around and then have tea in a nearby cottage. They didn’t know where they would drive on to next; Charles hadn’t even a map. It was the kind of wandering he had often dreamed of having again, after that week in Normandy with Brunon, and here it was, with her, a reality, yet still enclosed in a dream. As they explored the narrow streets the dream reached to the sky, as if actual sleep, like a great bird, was already wheeling and swooping over his head. The town was almost deserted, full of Sunday stillness till they reached a central square, where a Salvation Army band oompahed in the sun without any audience. There was an ancient timbered building which they crossed the square to inspect; it was a fifteenth-century cloth hall, still in use as a municipal office. They passed close to the band on the way back, and as they did so there came over the trombones and tambourines a sound so startling in an Essex town that they stared incredulously. A Salvation Army man approaching with a collection plate grinned at their astonishment and supplied the explanation. ‘The circus just came in. Starts tomorrow for the Fair week.’

‘Fair week?’ Charles echoed, fishing in his pocket.

‘Oh yes, we have a real big fair once a year—thank you, sir —people come from miles around. Just up the road.’ He proudly jerked a thumb. ‘Turn to the right over there by the bank. That’s where you heard them lions.’ He seemed to be generously recommending a better entertainment than his own.

In a mood to see what was to be seen, they took the indicated direction and soon found why the centre of the town was so empty. A crowd that looked like the entire population was watching the unloading of a long line of circus vans into an open field. Everything was lively and noisy and smelly; the lions roared again in their cages, men yelled to each other as they hoisted the big tent, whips were cracked, ponies trotted, men in top hats and riding boots gave what was halfway a free show. In a field next to the circus there was to be the fair itself; here men in shirtsleeves were putting up stalls and coconut shies and unpacking hideous china that would doubtless be given away as prizes. Soon the street lamps gleamed over the scene of such unusual Sunday activity; naphtha flares were hung on the stalls, and a searchlight began to test itself against the sky. The noise and smells and brilliance increased as the job proceeded; but sometimes in the midst of a lull the Salvation Army band could be heard still playing cheerfully on and on.